


Damn, Curtis

by Straight_for_destiel



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Bipolar Disorder, Drug Use, M/M, very cocky milkovich
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 14:44:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1861743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_for_destiel/pseuds/Straight_for_destiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Ian Gallagher is 19 and lives in the outskirts of the north side. He works as a dancer at the Fairytale and one day runs into a certain thug with black hair and blue eyes at the grocery store.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kale and pink lips

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, it's a multi fic. Go easy on me, please. I've been a writer for years but this is new and so different than the format I usually write in.

“What the fuck?!” the sound resonated through the air for a second before a pair of calloused hands groped his pale, freckled waist. 

“No touching the dancers,” the tall, heavily built man ground out.

The minute his lean frame is pulled off the couch and out of the older man’s grip, the bouncer’s hands are circling frail, wrinkled wrists. He yanks him off the couch and ushers him out the door. “You’ve been told how many times, Ernie?” He spits out. “Just don’t bother coming back if you have trouble keeping your arms to your sides. Is it that difficult?” After a huff of disbelief, he turns back to the discombobulated boy he just “rescued”, yet again. “Come on, Curtis. You’re too tweaked out. Just forget the rest of your shift; don’t need to be savin’ you any more than necessary, tonight.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” The boy takes a stuttering breath. “It was nothing. I can handle myself.”

“Right, try ‘splainin’ that to Dick. He sees you this jittery, lettin’ your guard down, and you’re done. He’s not too keen on losin’ money due to me havin’ to throw out payin’ customers.” His expression grew softer. “Look, Ian, just take the night off. Come down from whatever high you’re on an’ I’ll see you on Thursday,” he said, a half step above a whisper. 

After a moment of staring with blank eyes, searching the man’s face just to come up with sincerity, Ian nodded. “Fine,” he muttered under his soft, yet sturdy gaze. He couldn’t bring himself to look into his eyes; his words spoke enough, he didn’t need that hazel mesh doing the same. 

Stumbling down the steps to the dressing room, holding on to the rail for dear life, Ian finds his way to his locker. After a few attempts that ended in a physical brawl with him and the lock, he finally managed to get his trembling digits to grip the dial. He almost loses his balance as he’s taking off the gold booty shorts and replacing them with black boxer briefs. 

As soon as his blue jeans are secured around his waist, and the gray/green striped tank top is around his torso, Ian heads back up the stairs and out the door. 

The bouncer gives him a squeeze on his shoulder. “Called a cab,” he says, slightly raising his eye brow, “you good for now?” 

Ian attempts at a smile, the corner of his mouth barely cooperating. “Rog, ‘m fine.” 

“’kay. See ya Thursday?” 

“See ya Thursday,” Ian slurs out.

When the cab pulls up, Roger hauls Ian into the white vehicle and sends him off with a wave and $16 to pay for the ride. 

The cab pulls up to a rundown apartment building in the corner pocket of north side Chicago. He offers the driver the money along with a form of appreciation that the driver can’t really comprehend through the drowsiness.

Eventually, Ian’s knees are durable enough to step out, and with the help of the driver, he makes his way to the door. Not able to take the constant fidgeting of the redhead’s fingers and the constant miscalculated jabs at the key hole, the driver moves to take the keys from him and open it for him. Only, Ian isn’t too pleased with his choice of movement so he shoves his chest back and says, “I got it. ‘M good. Jus’ a bit outta it. I can do it.” By that point, he’s really just mumbling his thoughts, trying to convince himself. 

After one last valiant attempt, he manages to get the door unlocked and stumbles up the stairs to his apartment, ignoring the worried comments of the cab driver.

The minute he makes it into his apartment, he trips over his feet and lands face first onto the splintering wood. He waits half an hour before he has the energy to get up and trudges to his bedroom, pulling down the Murphy bed from the wall. The mattress hangs onto a few sea green paint chips. 

Ian curls onto the bed and wraps himself in the ripped comforter, spilling with stuffing. That’s when blackness fills his line of vision.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

It’s 11:17, according to the blinking alarm clock. It’s been going off since 9:00 AM. 

Ian reaches over and shuts it off one last time. “Shut up,” he groans. He begins lifting himself off the bed but stops to cradle his aching head.

This is the 3rd time this week that Ian has fallen victim to this pressure in his head; his blood pounding, relentless. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and digs the heels of his palms into his ears, bringing his face down to his knees. 

Five minutes go by before he is able to sit up right and no longer feels the need to squeeze his head so hard it forms into a diamond. 

It takes almost everything that Ian can muster just to stand up and walk out the doorway into the tattered excuse of a kitchen. It takes even more once he finds himself balancing his weight between the counter and the fridge. 

The fridge contains nothing decent; one egg, a quarter of a stick of butter, one sip of almost expired milk, a package of mushrooms, a few peppers, maybe some beef or hotdogs in the fridge. With the ‘fuck it’ attitude he seems to be wearing the past week, Ian gulps the last of the milk and puts the carton back in, coming out with the egg.

He makes it scrambled and eats it with a packet of ketchup he found in the back of the pantry and a piece of stale toast. It’s enough to hold him over the rest of the day, until he can go to the store, at least. 

A little past noon, Ian decides he should go to Rigby’s. It’s the store right on the outskirts of the north side.

He grabs a cart and starts skating his way through the aisles. Potatoes, celery, more eggs, hot dog buns, minute rice, raisin oatmeal, etc. 

He’s making a grab for some bacon when another hand gets in his way. Another hand covered in pale skin, leading up to dark hair and blue eyes. 

“Hi,” he hears her say, far more chipper than expected. She has hair that’s sticking up in every direction and a black skirt that’s just above her wrists. Lip between her teeth, she tilts her head and gives a cute smile. Maybe she wasn’t intending for it to be cute, but Ian can’t really see the true intentions of that smile through his gay goggles. 

She’s about three seconds away from twirling her hair and tackling him when Ian finally finds his voice.

“Um… hey,” he says

She continues to stare at him with that smitten look overtaking her face. 

“Oh, uh, you can have it,” Ian blurts out once he realizes her hand still lies on top of his. He draws back his arm and she gets this sheepish smile and looks down at her feet while grabbing the package of bacon.

“Uh, thanks,” she says, full blush taking over her cheeks. 

“No problem,” Ian returns, not looking in her direction.

The silence creeps back in, awkwardness mostly on Ian’s part. Then, it’s interrupted. 

“The fuck’s takin’ so long?” A man with similar features comes from behind the crates of molded butter and beans on sale. He then throws in two packages of jello in the basket and furrows his brow at the girl before glancing at Ian. “The fuck are you?” he asks.

Ian’s almost speechless. The dark haired man with his blue eyes and his raised eyebrows are turning Ian into putty. Ian is sure not to miss the way he scratched the corner of his mouth with his thumb nail. His fingers are inked with “FUCK U-UP” and it’s actually one of the hottest, if not stupidest, tattoos he’s ever seen. He looks down and realizes he’s in a pair of gray sweat pants and a stained, torn up white tank top. The other man doesn’t seem to mind much, though. In fact, he seems to kind of appreciate it, if the way he’s sizing him up means anything. 

“Oh, right. I’m Mandy,” the girl says, sticking her arm out. She still seems to be in her own little world but the other man’s presence seems to have taken her out of it, mostly. “And you are…?” 

“Oh, um, I’m, uh,” Ian says once he’s found his will to speak. “I’m Ian,” he says, accepting the girls hand but staring at the man that’s still staring at him in ‘that’ way. “Who are you?” he finds himself asking him.

He pauses for a moment but gives a slight nod. “Mickey.” 

“Mickey,” Ian repeats, smiling as his name is released through his lips.

They stare at each other a little while longer before Mandy speaks up. 

“Hey, Ian.” She can not seem to keep the smile off her lips as his name slides off her tongue. “Wanna come over?”

“Oh, I don’t…” he trails off.

“Really, it’s fine! It’s the least I could do after you were kind enough to sacrifice a package of bacon for me,” she nudged his shoulder. 

“Well, I don’t want to be in the way or anything. I mean… is your boyfriend, here, okay with that?” he asks, glancing over to the blue eyes of the man that stands next to her. He notes that he’s not too tall and kind of walks in that way that you know he’s not a product of parents who enforce the ‘proper posture’ rule. He’s maybe about 21, a year or two older than Ian, at least. 

“Boyfriend? I don’t have…” she trails off. “You mean Mickey? No! No way. No way!” she breathes out through a fit of laughter. “This asshole, here, is not my boyfriend.”

“Oh, I just… I-I just thought…” He stutters out, glancing between the two.

“Can’t really blame you. This slut isn’t very good at keeping her legs closed around any guys,” Mickey says, motioning towards Mandy, smirk firmly in place. 

“Like you’re one to talk, douche bag,” she retorts.

“Excuse me?” he says, making a move to put her in a headlock and twist her nipple.

She pushes him off her while pleading. “What did dad tell you about giving me titty twisters?” with that comment he lets go and his expression falls a bit. 

“So, you comin’ over or what, Firecrotch?” he directs towards Ian, breaking the silence that fell over them.

“I’ve got grocery shopping to do, maybe later?” Ian asks, desperate to fight the blush that’s nesting in his cheeks at the new title.

“That’d be great!” Mandy exclaims. She’s twirling her hair and twisting her foot.

Mickey takes a moment to appreciate the view in front of him before glaring Mandy’s way. “Bitch, can you keep your panties on for one second?” he throws into the air.

“Screw you,” she tosses back.

“Fuck off.” He flips her off while raising his eye brows.

“Anyway, call me,” she says, grabbing Ian’s hand and writing her number on his palm. “Later,” she throws over her shoulder as she walks away, basket in hand.

“Yeah, later, Firecrotch.” Mickey says, letting his eyes drift down one last time as he follows his sister, a smirk still etched on his face. He swears, those eyes could cut him in half.

Ian just stands there for a moment, completely dazed. He shakes his head while trying to figure out what the hell just happened. A moment passes and he begins walking again. He goes over his list as he grabs the items he needs: bagels, onions, kale, blue eyes, black hair, pale skin, puffy, pink lips that he wouldn’t mind taste testing a few times. He takes a second to recompose himself and continues down the narrow aisles.


	2. Casper The Thuggy Ghost and "Little" Red Riding Hood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’s washing the dishes when those blue eyes pop back into his head, blue eyes that push through every layer of skin; skin so pale that he was not sure if he was bathed in milk every night as a child or if he was just the lovechild of Casper the Friendly Ghost and a sheet of drywall."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if it's not the best. Like I said, I'm still getting the hang of writing fanfiction.

It’s almost 5:00 and the redhead still had not called. 

Mickey is sitting on the couch, remote in hand, watching the end of Final Destination. He keeps looking towards the bathroom where his sister is spending all of her time fixing her hair and makeup. She walks out for the tenth time and plops down on the couch.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he replied with a grin. 

Mandy looks at the screen while trying to ignore her brother. Her leg continued to bounce without her to really notice. She jumps up from her seat and starts heading to the bathroom, again.

“Christ, Mandy,” Mickey threw his arm out and tilted his head back. “The fuck do you keep doin’ that for?”

“What, I can’t want to look nice?”

“You can but Jesus fucking Christ.” He shook his head and took a swig of his beer. “No use in it. You’re wastin’ your time.”

“Right, you saw the way he looked at me,” she scoffed. “Can’t help if every hot guy wants a piece of this,” she said, motioning down her body.

Mickey barked out a laugh and took another sip of beer, followed by a drag of his cigarette. “You fuckin’ wish, bitch.” 

“Don’t be fuckin’ jealous just ‘cause I can pick up a guy with a few words and you’re still mopin’ around like a kid who lost his puppy. Jeez, Mick.” Mandy then entered the bathroom, leaving Mickey on the couch with a look too smug to be legal. 

His sister always went all out like this. She waited and waited for someone who was not worth the wait. Mickey was not so sure about this Ian guy, though. Maybe he was worth the wait, if the way he gyrates his hips on that tiny stage means anything. Every Thursday and Sunday night “Curtis” gets the main stage and ever since that one night Ryan and Craig brought him to The Fairytale with the excuse that he needs to get laid, he’s been sure not to miss a single show. 

Each day has its own act. Thursday was his “Red Riding Hood” portrayal. He would go on the stage in a red cloak. It was basically a few minutes of him teasing the crowd by crouching, showing off his legs, followed by him showing bits of his abs before he rips it off by pulling the tie. After the cloak falls off, red booty shorts are revealed and he feels himself up for 15 minutes. Sunday was probably Mickey’s favorite, though. On Sunday, Ian, or Curtis, would come out with camo shorts that came up to about his mid-thigh and a tight white or tan t-shirt, which Mickey had to admit rubbed him in all the right ways, though he hated admitting it. He would pull the shorts off to show camo booty shorts and would slowly strip his shirt, rolling his abs in the best way. “Curtis” would also do push-ups and pull-ups, anything to drive the crowd nuts, which happened to include Mickey. 

Ian never noticed Mickey. He would stay off to the side, by the bar, in order to stay away from the geriatric viagroids that constantly tried getting in his pants. It took him a minute to recognize those green eyes and red hair due to the loss of eye liner, which Mickey found ridiculous, and the energy he always seemed to have. 

When he dropped the two packages of jello in the basket he was too caught up in his sister flirting that he did not notice exactly who it was she was talking to. After she introduced herself he slowly began to recognize him and could not keep his eyes in place. Once he realized Ian’s eyes were drifting to his lips and fingers he started working his smugness to his advantage. Ian, hot, “little” red riding hood, was really attractive in his normal environment and seemed to have a thing for bad-boy thugs. So, yeah, maybe Ian was worth the wait.

 

─────────

 

His alarm is going off again. Fuck. It’s 9:00 AM on Thursday. 

Ian lifts his head up and pauses a minute before getting up fully. His head isn’t as bad as yesterday; his brain actually had a night of rest rather than abusing it up to the brink of no return. 

He gets up and trudges his way into the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice. 

He’s washing the dishes when those blue eyes pop back into his head, blue eyes that push through every layer of skin; skin so pale that he was not sure if he was bathed in milk every night as a child or if he was just the lovechild of Casper the Friendly Ghost and a sheet of drywall. The first one would probably explain the rotting smell he seemed to carry around with him. Sans the smell of him and his clothing, Mickey was still something Ian would not mind having in his mouth.

Water begins splashing up, forcing Ian out of his daydreaming. He’d completely spaced out and the steady stream of water was going at it with the crappy aluminum spoon in the sink. I hope they’re using a raincoat, Ian thought to himself with a smirk.

He reached over the backsplash and turned the handle back so the force was not so great, then he moved the spoon out of the way. 

Trish was going to have his ass if he could not pay his bill this month, so what was he doing drifting off to spank bank island when he should be watching his severely inclining water bill? 

He tries pushing the thoughts out of his head until the dishes are finished. Afterward, he can’t make any promises. He sits on the torn up couch and turns on the Phillips TV, which still had a VHS player built in.

He’d been using his neighbor’s Netflix account because he was too drugged out all the time to even notice. Seriously, his email was ayylmao@gmail.com and his password was “Dope4lyfe”. The funny part was that he was strung out on sniffing sharpie markets rather than pot. He was such a fucking tool. Granted, Ian was not exactly straight and narrow, far from it, in fact, but he was not so desperate for a high that he would huff paint. All it took was a few hip rolls and his clients would be sliding party favors down his throat. He did not do drugs every night. He only relied on them when he felt really low. It only lasted a day sometimes but it could last up to 2 months, depending on how high his mood was before the inevitable crash. Still, “Dope4lyfe” was a dumbass password. 

After he logged in it was game over. He knew exactly what he was doing until his shift at 10:00 PM. He turned on “Queer As Folk” and got comfortable with his leg spread open and his left foot resting on the coffee table. 

If his hand slid down his sweats once or twice, or if his sweats got lost some time between Season 2 and season 3, while thoughts of “Fuck U-UP” flashed through his mind, who could have noticed? Who would have cared?

 

─────────

 

It’s officially 9:59, one minute until “little” red’s big appearance. Ian looks in the mirror one last time before walking out in the stage. 

The music starts playing, something with a soft beat, so he starts swaying his hips to the rhythm. 

Roger is working over by the corner but he’s sure to keep an eye on the guys surrounding the redhead’s stage. They tend to get a bit handsy. This is why he never looks past the first row, if he even opens his eyes. He just keeps his head up and rocks his hips to the sound of the music, maybe a row of rolls here and there. He’ll wink at some clients when he peers down and sees a few big bucks in their grips. Who’s complaining, though? This technique gets him up to $1500. Rich, graying men like a tease.

Ian ignores them the best he can for now. At least until he has to physically touch them. He does not like to think about that, though. He closes his eyes, turns his head up, and just pictures what life would be like if he did not run away. Instead of running at the age of 16, maybe he should have stayed in the south side, if not for just a while longer.

This is how he starts thinking about the girl he met at the grocery store. He’d been so focused on her brother, but maybe he could use a friend, as well. 

Why not give her a call?


	3. The sad story of an ass with a heart of gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "After staring at him without emotion, she reaches into the bag and tosses another piece into the air just for Mickey to dive in and catch it with his own mouth. While Mandy responds with a glare, Mickey shoots back a smug grin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I wrote (pretty bad) smut. It's really weird, so, yeah. Sorry?? Don't hate me or anything. I'm actually pretty happy with this chapter but it's still really weird. Don't hate me? (And give me feedback! If it's bad, just tell me. Also, if you'd like to correct anything, that'd be nice. I'm sort of my own beta. I just reread it a million times. Anyways, sorry if this sucks.

Like always, Mickey is sure to not miss a show. Like always, Mickey stays out of view. That is, until the redhead gets off the stage and heads towards the dressing room to get dressed for the smaller stage. 

Mickey calls over to the bartender, “Yo, jack and coke!” The bartender obliges and heads over to hand him his drink. 

“Enjoy the show?” the bartender asks with a wink.

“Yeah, up yours, twinkle toes,” Mickey says, taking the drink. He looks over the brunette, again and glances to his brown eyes. 

“I thought it could go up yours, actually.” Brandon smirks at the man.

Mickey looks him up and down before downing his drink. He looks back towards the crowd after a few minutes and spots the redhead grinding down on some old fuck. Shouldn’t he be wearing life alert, Mickey thinks to himself. He turns his attention back to the bartender with a playful smirk still in place. “Meet me in the second stall in ten.”

Brandon takes the occasional invite. He heads back down the bar and Mickey takes the opportunity to check out his medium build. He’s not built like a rock but he’s built pretty muscular, yet still lean. That’s probably why Mickey picks him on the days he can’t get “Curtis” out of mind. He glances at the redhead getting back on the stage as he gets up from his stool and heads towards the bathroom, following protocol. 

It takes all of 5 minutes before Mickey becomes impatient and takes the remaining time to prepare himself. He takes out the travel size bottle of lube and applies some to his index, middle, and ring finger. He starts fingering himself with his middle finger until he can’t handle it and needs more. He adds the index finger, his forehead on the stall wall, breathing hot and labored as he brushes past his prostate. That’s when the redhead decides to walk in with some blonde twink’s arms around his waist. He pushes the door to the third stall open and shoves the twink from around his waist into the stall, against the brick wall. 

Mickey continues scissoring his fingers as he hears the blonde giggling and Ian turning him around in order to pull his pants down. He lets out a moan when he hears the blonde gasp, making a remark of how he shouldn’t legally be allowed to carry the name “little red”. He adds a third finger, making his need grow even more. 

A knock comes from the stall door and Mickey can see the shoes of Brandon at the bottom. He unlocks the door and pulls him into the gray, dimly lit section.

Brandon grins and lets out a breathy laugh when he sees Mickey has already prepared himself.

“Couldn’t wait, I see,” He remarks.

“Shut up and get in me,” Mickey says, pulling him behind him and facing the stall wall, again. The bartender just lets out another laugh but unzips his jeans and puts on a condom. He strokes himself a few times, lathering himself with lube and begins lining himself up with Mickey’s hole. 

Mickey grips the top of the stall while the man behind him slowly pushes in. 

Ian looks up from the panting blonde underneath him. He begins pushing in, not stopping until he’s fully seated. He looks up at the ceiling with his eyes closed to regain the ability to move, again. When he lets his gaze drift to the side, he is suddenly reminded of blue eyes and pale skin when his eyes meet the letters “U-UP”. He starts rocking back and forth into the blonde, his eyes closed, listening to the grunts of pleasure from the next stall over.

Mickey rocks back and forth on his dick, “Fuck, man. Come on,” he says, growing more impatient. The redhead lets out a small laugh and Brandon shoots a glare like he can see through the wall of the stall. “Shut the fuck up, firecrotch,” Mickey says to the wall so Brandon would get his head back in the game. The bartender just gives him a confused look but when Mickey starts pushing himself back, grounding his ass into his hips, he shakes his head and starts thrusting into the awaiting man.

Ian is thrown off course for a moment but quickly regains his train of thought and starts pounding into the blonde. He blocks out the moans coming from underneath him and rests his head on the side of the stall. 

Hands are rubbing up and down his sides and finding their way under his shirt, pushing it up to his chest. Mickey starts hearing the blonde’s moaning get louder. 

“God, yes! Mmm, yes! Ride me all the way home, Red ridin-” the blonde begins.

“Okay, you need to shut the fuck up,” Ian cuts him off and Mickey lets out a small laugh through his labored breathing. 

Mickey tries focusing on the grunts coming from the red head while the bartender finds his prostate and starts drilling him into the wall. He grips the wall, letting out a string of "fuck's". He pictures pale hips dusted with freckles and strong, bony fingers gripping his sides.

The redhead continues pounding into the blonde, listening to the thug’s breathing getting even heavier. He rests his hand on the wall separating their stalls, his head falling between his shoulders, and brushes his fingers against the brunette’s for a split second. At that, he hears the string of swears getting louder. Mickey gets closer to his release and the blonde reaches around, starting to tug at himself. 

The bartender reaches around and starts jerking Mickey off. He feels Ian’s fingers touch his again and he wraps his index finger around the redhead’s long, bony middle finger. This seems to set both of them off because Mickey is shooting against the wall in white streams and Ian’s hand is tensing, his thumb rubbing along Mickey’s. 

The bartender finishes a few thrusts later and the blonde finishes jerking himself off while Ian goes soft inside of him. The bartender pulls out, leaving Mickey feeling empty but his index finger is still wrapped around Ian’s finger. He pulls his pants up after discarding the condom and leans in for a kiss but Mickey pulls back with his hand to his chest. He just shrugs and zips up, walking out of the stall. 

The bathroom is quiet as the blonde leaves with a “call me” and a lingering touch. Mickey then lets his hand drop from the wall and the redhead’s finger. He pulls his pants and boxers up from his ankles, the redhead doing the same after disposing of the filled condom. Mickey is the first to step out. 

Watching heavy, black boots that are stopped in front of the stall, Ian fixes his hair. Before he can step out, a piece of toilet paper is slid under the door. On it is a phone number and a message that reads, “in case you lost my sister’s number”. Ian looks at the faded black numbers on his hand and back to the note. The numbers don’t match and Ian can’t help but smirk. The boots start heading out the bathroom door and Ian unlocks the stall door, heading back outside to finish his shift. 

Through the flashing lights, he tries to find the brunette in the sea of faces but he’s nowhere in sight. 

Yet again, Ian is left feeling confused of past events. “The fuck just happened?” he mutters under his breath.

With leaded feet, Ian hauls himself back onto the small stage until the next bought lap dance. 

Yeah, maybe he could call Mickey, too.

 

________________________________________

It’s about 11:30 when the ‘L’ finally pulls up to his stop. 

Mickey pulls his coat tighter and walks down the steps, heading down the street to a brick apartment building covered in crowned windows. He opens the glass door, walking past Oscar at the front desk. It still kind of amazes him how they are able to afford an apartment with a front desk, especially when they came from the south side. Maybe Brian just took pity on them and let them have a lease. Either way, they’re nowhere near the south side anymore and they’re far from their so-called family. 

The elevator opens in the back of the lobby so he rushes to catch it before it closes, jamming his hand in the middle at just the right moment. The man in the elevator nods to him then grimaces when he notices his knuckles and poorly tamed hair. He looks ahead with his hands crossed over his front.

"Fuck off," Mickey wants to say. Instead, he gives a nod right back with a tight smile sewed on his face. Like he said, he’s not in the south side, anymore. 

When the doors open, he walks down the hall to his and his sister’s apartment and walks in. 

“The fuck have you been?” Mandy shouts from the couch.

“None of your business. Fuck, put some pants on, Jesus fucking Christ!” he says, blocking his eyes on the way to the fridge. 

Mandy flips him off and throws a piece of popcorn in the air, attempting to catch it with her mouth. Again, she fails. 

Pushing her feet off the coffee table, he walks past her. “Fuck, mandy,” he says, brushing off the popcorn from the cushion. He sits down and takes a sip of his beer. “We don’t live in a shithole anymore. I’m tryin’ to keep it that way.” 

After staring at him without emotion, she reaches into the bag and tosses another piece into the air just for Mickey to dive in and catch it with his own mouth. While Mandy responds with a glare, Mickey shoots back a smug grin. 

In turn, she grabbed the beer from her brother’s hand and sat down contently, eyeing him while nursing it. 

They stay there, the only thing breaking the silence being the laughs they let out whenever one of the pregnant 16 year olds on the screen have a complete breakdown. 

“So,” Mandy begins, “how’s, uh, work?”

Mickey swallows, feeling as if his throat is closing and the walls are caving in. “Mandy,” he says. “Can we, just… please?” He looks down at his foot, resting on the coffee table. They’ve managed to avoid the topic for nearly a month. He was hoping they could go on pretending for a little while longer. Apparently, Mandy had other ideas. She still feels guilty for something she shouldn’t. Mickey understands she shouldn’t feel guilty for it. His stubbornness, however, is bent on making her pay. It seems as though that part of him is winning because she can’t help but feel like absolute shit. 

“Mick,” she pauses for a moment, observing a quiet Mickey with his attention turned to crappy television, adam’s apple bobbing, and jaw tightening. “Sorry,” she says, turning her attention to the program, as well. 

Mickey doesn’t turn his head but sends a temporary glance her way. “He offered me five grand, the other day,” Mickey begins. Mandy turns her view back to Mickey, jaw slacked. “Don’t look so surprised,” Mickey says, sparing another glance at her without the effort of moving his head. 

“Did you- what’d you do?” she sputters. 

“Fuck, Mandy!” Mickey shouts, standing up. “What d’you think? I’m not some cheap whore, unlike some people!” He regrets the words the second they leave his mouth but he can’t just take them back. Instead, he looks the other way, running his hand through his hair.

Mandy’s eye brows furrow. “What the hell, Mickey?” she shouts back, shaking her head. She lets out a dry laugh. “Know what? I don’t give a fuck. I’m tired of it. I’m sorry if your boss came on to me. I’m sorry if he charmed his way into my pants. I’m sorry if you never told me what the hell was going on with you. I’m sorry if you never told me about your stupid little office romance.” She shakes her head with an incredulous look. “But I’m not sorry that you don’t have the balls to tell me to my face that you have a problem with it. The minute I found out, I cut it off. So, don’t blame this little pity party on me.” She looks at him another moment but he continues looking the other way, his jaw quivering. “Screw you, Mickey.” Mandy stomps her way to her bedroom, slamming the door and locking it. 

He stares at the popcorn on the table for what seems like forever, rubbing his hand over his face. “Fuck,” he mutters, before going to her door and knocking, almost hesitant. “Mands?” She’s silent so he knocks, again, and opens the door, sure not to startle her, once he hears the door unlock. 

“Mands, I’m sorry.” She is lying on the bed, wrapped in the blanket, facing the wall. “Mands?” he tries, again. She still doesn’t respond so he sits next to her on the edge of the bed, rubbing her back with his left hand, leaning on his right elbow so he can see her face. After a moment of silence, he continues, “I know it wasn’t your fault. I’m just an asshole, you know that.” She sniffs but seems to accept it. “I told him to stick it up his ass,” he, yet again, continues. “Literally. Said he was a bitch, so he might as well be takin’ it like one.”

Mandy lets a small laugh escape. “Guess that makes you a bitch,” she mutters. 

He lets a smile blow over his face, along with a breathy laugh. “Nah, likin’ what I like don’t make me a bitch.” He continues rubbing her back until she turns around to face him. 

“I’m sorry, Mick.” Her voice is small, reminding him of how she used to sound so young and defenseless back when they were kids and hiding under her bed from Terry. Her eyes are wide and innocent. 

“Don’t be sorry, Mandy.” He looks her dead in the eye. “Never, ever say you’re sorry for any piece of shit.” He rubs his thumb over her cheek. “Got it?” he asks, raising his eye brows to further his seriousness. She only hums so he repeats himself, “Got it?”

“Yeah, Mick, got it.” She leans into his touch. “You shouldn’t be so broken up about him, though. I mean, we’ve both seen he’s pretty much got nothin’ goin’ on down there.” 

He lets out another breathy laugh, pressing his lips to her forehead, before giving her a small smile and heading out the door. “Night, bitch,” he half-whispers. 

“Night, whore.” She rests her head back on the pillow, closing her eyes while the stream of light disappears. 

Mickey walks through the living room, clearing the couch and table of the spilled popcorn, tossing the bag in the garbage and chugging the rest of the beer. He drops the bottle in the bin, too, and shuts the television off. 

During his cleaning spree, he hears his phone going off. 

Dropping the bin beside the kitchen counter, he picks up his phone to see a notification from an unknown number. He clicks it open to see the words, “Hey it was nice seeing you tonight. Maybe we could have a repeat? ;)” Mickey smirks at the message before receiving another one right after, “Well maybe under different circumcisions. You know, maybe in the same stall… maybe in a bed ;)” Mickey lets out a laugh that may be a bit too loud before receiving yet another message, “Fuck I meant circumstances. Fuckin autocorrect” Mickey decides to relieve him of embarrassment at this point and begins typing back, then decides that a frustrated Ian is pretty cute, so, instead, he decides to be the ass he is. 

“Sorry my mommy told me never to let strangers give me circumcisions in the stall of a gay club” he types back. He imagines the redhead’s cheeks growing red and smiles at the image.

“My mommy never said anything like that. Maybe you should give it a shot ;)” he gets back.

Mickey practically chokes on saliva and has to recompose himself before typing back, “Why not? I get out at 6:30 tomorrow so come by” he then types the address and waits a second before adding, “and quit it with the fucking winky faces!”

In return, the redhead sends him, “Whatever you desire ;) ;) ;)” Mickey just laughs and allows it. He puts the phone down on the coffee table after logging the number into his contacts and heads to his room so he can get up at eight in the morning for work. 

"Fuckin’ redheaded prick," he thinks to himself.


	4. Harry Pothead and the Knight Slytherin Down the Couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "he killed her?" he slurred.
> 
> Mandy stopped laughing, her expression blank before continuing, bending over and holding her side. Through the few breaths she took she managed to say, "No, he took out the garbage."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so, so, so, so, so, so sososososososo sorry for the long, long wait! I'm a terrible person, I know. Anyway, I couldn't find it in me to continue from where I left off. It felt too wrong. But my friend and I were joking around and it inspired me to restart the whole chapter in this nerdy form so yeah, do the references make up for my absence? Sorry again for being a neglectful parent to you guys :c Anyways, here you go!

"No, he took care of the garbage," she stumbled out, winking.

Ian tried to keep a straight face but ended up bursting out with laughter. After containing it, he leaned in closer, "he killed her?" he slurred.

Mandy stopped laughing, her expression blank before continuing, bending over and holding her side. Through the few breaths she took she managed to say, "No, he took out the garbage."

"Oh," Ian whispers, "are they listening in?" he asks, looking around. "Got it. The garbage," he whispered, winking.

Mandy giggled, resting her head on his lap. "You're weird, Ian." 

They stay there, staring at the flat screen against the wall. It's sleek and looks like it costs hundreds. "How much did you spend on that thing?" he asks. Mandy looks up to Ian who's eyes are slits with his concentration. 

"Nothing," she says, turning onto her side.

He stares at her before leaning down and asking, "Did it appear?" She pauses and looks up at him with a questioning look. "Ya know, magically?" Her look deepens and he continues with a ridiculous British accent, "yer a wizard Mandy!" to which Mandy bursts out laughing.

"Nope... Mickey's a wizard," she whispered. Once the giggling died down she said, "he got it."

After a moment of silence Ian shout-whispered, "from the girl he killed?"

"He didn't kill her!" she cried through the laughter. "He just stole it from some rich asshole."

Ian nodded. "That's pretty hot."

“Not as hot as…” she trails off. Her eyes focus on the screen before pointing to a shirtless male character. “Not as hot as that guy!”

He directs his attention back to the television. “The dad’s choice?” he asks, Mandy confirming with a nod. 

“Man has some good taste.” 

“I like the original boyfriend.” 

“The ‘badass’ who spit in the mom’s drink?”

“The amazing boyfriend who spit in his girlfriend’s mom’s drink after she called her daughter a slut,” he forced out, pushing past slurs. 

“Why do you always have to root for the bad boyfriend in Parental Control?”

“Not a bad boyfriend. The parents just don’t approve. Hell, this guy is squirming in his seat, watching his girlfriend… holy fuck! What the fuck was that?” Ian shouts, straightening in his place.

“She really knows how to use her tongue,” Mandy commented.

“Her boyfriend and parents are watching this. Her dad has a problem with Robbie shoving his tongue down her throat but not a complete stranger groping her on live television?”

“He’s hot, the dad’s probably too hypnotized by those hard as fuck abs to think about his daughter half naked right now,” Mandy says, shrugging. 

“The fuck is wrong with these parents?”

“You just like bad boys.” Mandy slinks back down, a content sigh making its way through her vocal chords as the girl’s date traces the lines of her bikini top. 

“Well I’m sure as shit not a fan of-” he begins, holding one finger up, chin pulled back as he focuses on an invisible dot and wills whatever is trying to come up to stay in its chambers. A small burp makes its way up his throat and he sits still for a second longer before continuing, “I’m sure as shit not a fan of her.”

Just as the two break apart, Brianna probably realizing that her boyfriend of 4 years (as well as half of America) is watching as she eye/tongue fucks this complete stranger, the door opens and in comes Mickey Milkovich.

As he loosens his tie, kicking his (Fuck, is that Italian leather?) shoes off and shoving his jacket half way off his shoulders, Ian looks up and shouts ever so elegantly, “Harry! You’ve ‘turned to defeat the ‘V’ word once and for all!”

Mickey looses the grumble from his voice in exchange for an amused smirk. “Thought I made it pretty clear I was into the ‘P’ word,” he said, sliding on top of Ian and losing the jacket completely in one move as their lips connect. “And what’d I say ‘bout roleplayin’ your stupid Harry pothead fantasies?”

Ian hums as he kisses Mickey back, Mandy sliding to the other end of the couch with a grimace planted on her face. “You mean Potter?” he comments. Mickey doesn’t part for a second, just mumbles into his mouth some “witty” retort as he continues working his hands over Ian’s body, lifting his shirt up to his armpits and kissing down his chest.

“Get a fucking room!” Mandy shouts, kicking at her brother’s side.

“Fuck, bitch. Quit it!” He growls, sitting up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and grabbing the first beer he sees. He downs it and slouches on the couch, rubbing the pleather cushions that his back rests against. Ian sits up, too, but it only takes a few seconds before Mickey shoots up, grabbing the remote control. “The hell you guys been watchin’?”

“Par-” Mandy pauses, eyebrows drawn close together and nose switched to the side. “Control! Parental Control!” she shouts with pride and excitement. 

Mickey looks at her blank before settling back in and clicking info and scrolling up to see what else is on. That is, until Mandy tackles him, taking the remote back from him. “We’re watching this.” Mickey turns to Ian, eyebrows raised. Ian nods in agreement with her.

“You’re fuckin’ me, not my bitchy sister.” 

“But don’t you remember?” he starts with such confidence Mickey has to finish the rest of the beer off so he can prepare for the big ‘give me commitment, I give you my rights’ speech he always gets whenever Ian wants to be more than whatever the hell they are. “Everyone thinks I’m fucking her.” Mickey groans at the tone of his voice. “And that creep has been stayin’ away, has n’he?” he says, losing grip of his vocabulary once again. 

Mickey groans yet again at the mention of his fucked up boss. Ian knows part of the story but not the whole thing. For instance, he has no clue about the money he was offered or what the money was for, or why he wants him quiet in the first place. Basically, the only thing he actually knows is that Mickey’s boss used Mandy and can’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Luckily, that’s all he needs to know. He doesn’t beg for juicy details. 

“Yeah, he has.” Mickey stares at him a moment then looks back up at the tv. 

\---

“Shit,” Ian breathes.

“Shh, keep it the fuck down,” Mickey whispers, hand still working Ian under the blanket. 

Mandy has long since passed out drunk and Mickey has done his best to try to catch up with their drunken state. His “best” not being “the best”, but his best nonetheless. 

Ian’s breath is labored. Mickey notices this as he stares at his parted lips, his pale, blotchy skin covering his face and neck. His hooded lids are doing nothing to cover the green of his eyes but they still drag Mickey in to kiss up his neck and down his jaw until Ian turns his face the slightest bit to catch his lips in his.

Mickey keeps pumping his fists, getting both him and Ian off at the same time. 

A small movement is heard from the other end of the couch, 5 feet away from them. Mandy roles over, facing the other way with her eyes still firmly sealed. 

Once he is sure Mandy is completely out, Mickey brings his pace back to the normal speed.

The last month of them hooking up has helped Mickey understand what and when Ian gets off. This comes in handy when Ian lets out the telltale sign of his impending orgasm. Mickey backs his mouth away from Ian’s lips, brushing them lightly before bending down and biting his nipple while straddling his legs. He pumps himself even faster, making rhythms uneven as he focuses on which is which so they can finish around the same time. 

Soon enough Ian is tensing under his grasp, so he holds even tighter and thrusts into his own fist. After a few moments Mickey’s vision is taken over by a white glow and they’re riding out their orgasms together, Ian muffling their moans with his hands clamped on their mouths.

They finish and are left empty shells, oversensitive and drawn out.

Mickey’s head lies on Ian’s shoulder until their breathing returns to normal. 

Sometime after his third beer, Mickey lost his pants and Ian lost his shirt. Now his shirt was being used to clean them both up, against Ian’s wishes.

“I can work a gun better than I can work my own dick,” Mickey mutters.

Ian’s frozen for a second under the confession but Mickey’s still avoiding eye contact. “Hot.” That’s all he can say, but it prompts a laugh out of Mickey who is practically dead with a hint of smugness from the small information he let slip about himself. “Doubt you can shoot better than you can work someone else’s dick, though,” he adds; anything to keep that smile on Mickey’s face. 

It works, for the most part.

They slip back on all articles of clothing and Mickey heads into his room with a nod to Ian. He waits a moment on the couch, waiting for the inevitable invitation to join him in his bed.

It doesn’t come, though. It never does. But hey, inevitable doesn’t mean right now, does it? Ian’s certain, if not completely hopeful and desperate, that it will come one of these days.

Ian curls up on the couch, resting his head on Mandy’s shoulder, reveling in the warm touch of her sweater draped over her back. This part of the routine isn’t too bad. It could be improved but who’s complaining? The boy who grew up banging old married guys? At least this hookup actually brings him home… well, brings him home with other relatives home, relatives that don’t include a wife and kid.

Ian closes his eyes, adjusting his head when Mandy makes small movements and turns to face him more, his head now resting on her rising and falling chest.

Yeah, this part of the routine isn’t too bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me? Please tell me if it was awkward or anything. Sorry, again.

**Author's Note:**

> All comments, advice, questions, and criticism welcome!
> 
> Tumblr: Shamelessinteraction.tumblr.com (send prompts)  
> Straight-for-destiel.tumblr.com


End file.
